


don't be surprised, baby (it's just me)

by pissedofsandwich



Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: Blowjobs, D/s elements, Edging, M/M, projecting my thirst for hasan minhaj via alex, sappy soft feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:26:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24083548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pissedofsandwich/pseuds/pissedofsandwich
Summary: Henry reflects on his relationship with touch over the years.
Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor
Comments: 17
Kudos: 263





	don't be surprised, baby (it's just me)

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to miss jhene aiko for providing me with h*rny quarantine tunes

Alex is a tactile person, Henry discovers. It's slowly driving him insane.

Henry already knows that he won't survive Alex. He thought it started on New Year's Eve, when he kissed Alex under the Linden tree and Alex, the worst idea he'd ever had, kissed him back, but Henry's not going to lie to himself—the first time he saw Alex, their botched meeting in Rio, Alex already captivated him. He had Alex believe that it was his brightness that Henry noticed about him, the warmth on his face when he threw his head back and laughed, the fire behind his eyes as he talked to June and Nora, the litter of politicians important enough to catch his eyes, until those eyes fixed themselves on Henry with a confidence that felt so out of reach.

But Henry was looking at his hands, too. The way he gripped Nora's shoulder, leaned into her as he whispered something in her ear that had Nora rolling her eyes with a bemused smile, the ease with which he offered his hand to an American Olympian, broad-shouldered and crinkly-eyed, their heads bent together in laughter. Touch, Henry noted, came easily to him. Alex wasn't someone who spent agonizing hours thinking about a brief, stilted handshake, wondering whether he'd somehow managed to give himself away after he tried so hard to be careful. To limit himself, so he wouldn't slip and fall deeper into the pit inside his head—the pit that the tabloids kept on digging, even as Bea dutifully checked herself into rehab.

When Alex's hand fit over his in greeting, Henry felt it down to his toes. _This_ , Henry thought, _would tear me apart._

So he whispered to Shaan, "Can you get rid of him?" and spent the last few hours at the Olympic in a terrible daze, trying not to think about sunshine smiles and sun-kissed curls, and ultimately, failing.

That day with Alex refused to stay locked up in a room, so Henry let it soar, hoped it would one day fly away. It didn't—more often than not, it came back to him in flashes, in a room full of strangers with his hands kept away, sequestering himself to a corner under the Queen's watchful eyes so he wouldn't give anything away, even as he watched his brother knock his shoulders against his mates', joking, not a care in the world. Even as he saw Alex, in the few encounters since Rio, after his mother was elected.

It was his duty, he thought, to keep himself hidden and locked away.

But try as he might, Henry eventually cracked, unable to keep his hands only to himself. In uni, when one of his brother's mates clapped a hand over his shoulder, he forgot to lean away from the touch. In an instant, he was found out—Anwar, Lady Agatha’s son, saw in him what he hid away from everyone else, and took him into his room and into his mouth, and Henry had never been touched like this, in a way that he didn't think he ever would be, and the release was so intense that all Henry could do in the aftermath was stare at the ceiling with a creeping sense of emptiness.

But Anwar touched him, soft fingers grazing against the inside of his wrist, and said, "Hey, don't freak out," in a tone that later, years after, Henry would note match Alex's.

"I'm not," Henry lied, but forgot again to fight when Anwar leaned over to kiss him on the lips, slow and sweet.

Three times, Henry snuck into Anwar's room and let himself forget to do everything that he was meant to do, and the whole time, in the world outside of Anwar's bedroom, they didn't look at each other. But the times they did, Henry memorized it and filed it away, in case he never got to experience something like this ever again—the way Anwar's mouth went slack as Henry brought him over edge with only his mouth for the first time, the raw, burning emotion in his eyes as he rocked into Henry the first time, too fast and all at once too much, and something profound and deep bloomed in Henry's chest, something like—hope.

Henry still remembers the half-lidded way Anwar glanced at him afterwards, the way he said, cheekily, "Never knew a prince likes to take it up the ass," and Henry closed his eyes and ground his teeth and told him to get lost.

Shaan, while very disappointed that Henry had managed to fool around behind his back, was very forgiving when he provided Anwar with the NDA. He didn't ask questions—maybe he always knew—and Henry was grateful but too embarrassed, so he made sure to be tedious with the NDA with the hook-ups that came after, just to make Shaan's life easier. Henry would take someone into his room, all enamored with the idea of sleeping with a prince, and made sure that by the morning, they were whisked away by Shaan. Their system had worked perfectly—Henry got what he wanted, and didn't allow himself for more, as his birthright was meant to be.

*

Pez, perhaps, is another person who's just as liberal as Alex when it comes to touch.

Henry met him in Eton. Even as a teenager, Pez already carried himself with the ease of someone who already knew who he was, and confident in his identity. Henry always wanted to be his friend— _everyone_ wanted to be his friend—but always found his exuberant extroversion rather intimidating, and sometimes, when some of his dark moods wouldn't improve, downright exhausting. When they were paired up for a history project, Henry immediately braced himself for a clash of personalities, but Pez took one look and him and said, "You do the research, then I'll present, how about that?" And Henry was so relieved at being spared from the humiliation of public speaking that he didn't question how Pez could possibly know this insecurity inside Henry, the nagging voice at the back of his head that said, _they will find out._

Though Pez had suggested that Henry do the research, he helped, too, and surprised Henry with how easy it was for Pez to match him word by word. Their friendship quickly grew, Pez the burning fire to Henry's steady flame, and Henry was so afraid of it burning out just as fast, like his many friendships before, when he got too stuck in his head to be friends with anyone, but Pez stayed. Through his father's diagnosis, his death, then through Bea's spiral, the night after his first visit to a therapist where he cried and cried, Pez stayed.

A steady hand on his shoulder, an arm across his back, pulling Henry close and away from social situations that had him miffed, a heartfelt hug when Henry admitted to those late nights at uni, the NDAs—Pez stayed, and still touched him, unafraid. Not many would've—he imagined that if Pez had been someone lesser, he'd recoil at the idea of touching him out of fear, as if his sexuality was some kind of twisted, wild urges. Pez accepted him, treated it as something as undisputable and factual thing as the color of the sky, and nothing changed—just Pez changing the pronouns to _he_ when asking if Henry fancied someone yet.

He didn't even flinch when Henry told him of his sexual experiences, the new things he tried that he wasn't sure about, the bad experiences that left Henry with so much embarrassment, it was hard to speak. Pez readily took him in, with a suggestive eyebrow and a smartass comment, but never with anything vile.

And in turn, Henry allowed himself casual touch—bumping his shoulders softly with Pez at galas in solidarity when some pompous aristocrat said something so incredibly callous about him, squeezing Pez's shoulder when he needed reassurance, clapping his shoulder in greeting when they met. Friendly casual touches that meant nothing more than what they said on the tin. Pez's touch was uncomplicated, at least; it didn't leave him with an empty sort of feeling in his chest, a longing for something that he wasn't supposed to want or have.

He used to think it was enough. If all he’s allowed to have is Pez's supporting hand on his shoulder, he could be content, he thought. He’d never realized how wrong he was until he saw Alex again.

*

Henry supposes he should’ve gotten used to it. It’s been two years of living together in the Brooklyn brownstone and spending most of every day falling asleep in the same bed, after all, but to Henry, who never even _dared_ to hope for something like this, it’s still exciting. He thought their days of clandestine hook-ups were what would kill him, but he wasn’t prepared for the days after Alex declared to the entire country that Henry was _his_ choice—uninhibited now, Alex touches him _everywhere._ A hand slipping across his waist as absentmindedly as he chats up an old friend at a party, wrapping his arm around Henry’s as they shop for groceries, brief kisses as they walk David in the park, and—most scandalously—a wicked hand in his back pocket.

 _Alex Claremont-Diaz putting his hand in Prince Henry’s back pocket in a very high school jock fashion is my sexuality now,_ someone declares on Twitter, attaching the paparazzi pictures, and it goes viral. Henry sees it twice in an hour on his own timeline. Henry refuses to think that he didn’t do it on purpose, even when Alex innocently says, “I didn’t think there were cameras!” And Henry rolls his eyes, because—well, after the terrible scandal, Henry knows that the both of them are hyperaware of cameras. It’s always been his instinct to look for them when he walks into a room, but it’s intensified now. Alex does it too, though Henry doesn’t think he notices it.

It can only mean that Alex wants it to be seen, the way he claims Henry, as if the entire world hadn’t been witnesses to their bared souls, their e-mails. He continues to want to show off Henry, and it’s dizzying, to be loved so publicly and in this capacity, that sometimes all that grounds him is Alex’s steadying touch on his waist, the point of gravity that always makes sense to Henry.

“Okay, love?” Alex would murmur under his breath when he notices Henry tensing, and every time, he would interlace their fingers together so sweetly and carefully, that it’s all Henry can do to nod and smile and remind himself that he’s allowed all this now.

But there’s touch that’s reserved only for Henry, too—the way he strokes his hair when he thinks Henry’s already asleep, the soft touch of his lips on Henry’s nape as he drifts off to sleep, him pulling at Henry’s arm until it encompasses his torso, holding it to his chest, his back pressed against Henry’s chest like two parentheses facing the same direction. The most heartbreaking thing is when Alex withdraws in his times of too much, leans away from Henry with every article questioning, _Can Alex Claremont-Diaz Run for Congress If He’s Dating a Prince of a Foreign Country?_ And Henry always patiently waits for Alex to come back, to climb into his lap and burrow his nose in Henry’s neck, whispering _I’m sorrys_ that Henry kisses away dumbly, until Alex is warm and happy and smiling again.

There’s his mouth, hot and wanton, kissing a trail from Henry’s neck to the dip of his hips, along his cock, taking all of him so greedily, like he always wants to hover over the limit of how much he can take. There’s his hands, twisted up in Henry’s hair as Henry returns the favor, pulling at the roots hard enough to make stars fly behind Henry’s lids, scooping what little Henry couldn’t swallow back into his mouth, filthy and intoxicating. There’s the way he slides into Henry, the way they push down on Henry’s when he feels like it, the way his legs lock behind Henry’s back when it’s Henry’s turn, pulling him impossibly closer.

Yeah, that—all of that belongs to Henry, and nobody else gets to have it.

Still, it doesn’t change the fact that Alex is still a tactile person. Henry’s well aware that Alex probably means nothing by it. This is a guy who, before even realizing his bisexuality, put his hand on Henry’s hips to teach him how to dance without thinking, without considering the implications for _him_ , let alone what it would do to Henry’s. Who thought that jerking off _together_ with his male friend was some kind of ‘just guys being dudes’ ritual instead of—well, something inexplicably _not_ straight.

(And no, Henry isn’t jealous of whatever happened between Liam and Alex in the past. He’s more concerned about Liam, and the years of emotional turmoil that he probably went through, having Alex essentially break his heart then seeing him all over the news as the First Son, then Alex calling him out of nowhere _in the middle of a date with his boyfriend_ to ask if he thought Alex was bisexual, only then to find out that the whole time, Alex had been sleeping with a _gay_ prince of England—

Well. Henry’s sent him a very big, very elaborate parcel for his engagement party, and he hopes that at least makes up for a fraction of it.)

And Henry knows that out of everyone to be jealous of, Hasan Minhaj should probably not be on the list for a magnitude of reasons. For example, he’s married with two kids, and Henry’s almost 99% sure that Alex is not his type.

(Henry personally believes that Alex should be everyone’s type, but he’s not about to say it to Alex and risk his head getting exponentially bigger than it already is.)

Objectively, Hasan is a handsome man, with that sharp jaw, immaculate beard, a tall build, but Henry wouldn't worry if that's all there is to Hasan. Except he’s almost smart, as quick-witted and into politics as Alex, and he has a successful award-winning show where he explains complicated world issues with _humor_ and amazing visuals and _presentation_ _slides_ and Henry is well aware of Alex’s apparent kink for competency. Henry remembers June telling him about his Justin Trudeau speaking French guilty pleasure, quickly replaced by a not-so-guilty obsession with watching and re-watching _Patriot Act_ after the former’s brownface scandal _,_ and tries not to read too much into how one of Alex’s hand rests on the small of Hasan’s back, friendly, except for the fact that he does it too, to Henry, whenever the room starts to feel cramped around him.

It feels a little Twilight-ish (don’t sue him, Alex and June and forced him to watch it and called it an introduction into American pop culture) to be watching Alex like this, from his own corner in the room with a glass of champagne pressed to his lips, watching him laughing and whispering in Hasan’s ear to be heard over the noise of the party, positively _giddy_ to be in Hasan’s company. Henry has to pretend he’s interested in a conversation about solar energy just so he has an excuse to look away.

He’s not responsible for the way he kisses Alex when they get home, sudden and just on this side of rough, pressing Alex into the wall and kicking his legs apart, sliding one knee in between. Alex’s delighted surprise is unexpected, and he responds with just as much fervor, pausing just long enough to say, “I don’t know what this is about, baby, but I’m _loving_ it.”

And it’s all Henry can do not to take Alex right then and there, to drag him bodily back into their bedroom and kiss him thoroughly. His mind whites-out, focused only on the sensation of Alex’s body underneath his and the sweet, silly way Alex opens up to him, familiar and _his_ , and the word spills out of Henry’s mouth before he has a chance to think about it.

“Mine,” he says without really meaning to, and something passes in Alex’s eyes, making his eyes go dark and wide. Henry sees the moment a snarky retort dies in Alex’s mouth. Alex understands, in that instant, and bites his lips and nods, says, “Yours,” and lets Henry kiss him until he’s breathless, trembling with the need to be touched.

But Henry—he has other plans tonight. He wants to try something, something that he thinks will soothe whatever weird feeling he has in his chest right now.

Henry pulls away from him, Alex’s whine at the absence of his touch ignored, and examines how the love of his life looks. Impatience is one of the most apt descriptors, surging forward to chase after Henry’s mouth, Henry denying him with a soft press of his palm against Alex’s chest and a whispered, “I want to take my time with you tonight.”

Alex grins up at him wolfishly. “Yeah?” he says, in his eyes a burning challenge. “You’re gonna tease me for hours until my words are reduced to only begging for your dick in my ass?”

Henry doesn’t falter. His persistence in not letting Alex see how much his words affect him must be doing something good to Alex, because the younger man groans, presses his hips against Henry’s urgently, like he can’t wait any longer.

The thing about Alex is that he thinks he's so much smoother than Henry.

The most fun Henry's had is letting Alex think that way. Nothing delights him more than the surprised, kind of awed look that Alex gets on his face whenever he discovers that Henry is, in fact, not the boring, vanilla person that Alex was so convinced he was. Henry still remembers the perplexed look on his face when Alex found out about his travel size lube, and thinks, privately, what other faces Alex would make if he introduces him to the things he learned in uni.

Henry wants to edge Alex. They’ve veered close, a few times, when they both wanted him to use every inch of authority in his body, but not enough. Henry wants to dedicate hours just to tease Alex, tie him up, ride him hard enough to bring him close to the cusp but not over. He wants to put his teeth on Alex’s red nipples until Alex’s reduced to tears. His experience with edging, though only the single one, had been intense and wonderful and mind-numbing, and he wants to make Alex feel just as good, making Alex feel his every touch with every atom in his body. The problem is just: he isn't sure if he has it in him not to touch Alex, to bring him off when his beautiful mouth curls around the word _please_.

God, but he remembers how it feels to be on the receiving end of that, of begging _please_. He remembers meeting John at a club for his 21st birthday, a friend of Pez's with a smile almost as bright, and eyes that made Henry weak in the knees. John had him pinned against the wall almost as soon as the door closed, held down his wrists on the bed so he wouldn't move, and when Henry wouldn't stop thrashing when John would pull off every time he was close, used his belt to tie Henry up to the bedpost so he could press down on his hips, and at the end, made Henry come so hard he almost blacked out.

He did tell Alex that he learned _a lot_ in uni.

And he intends to demonstrate it with flying colors on Alex, who’s spread out in front of him so beautifully.

They stumble into their bedroom—theirs, a shared space where they no longer live only in the margins of each other’s page—and strip off their clothes quickly, falling into bed in a fit of desperation, Alex clawing at the dress shirt that’s still buttoned up to Henry’s neck, glaring at it like he’s never found anything more offending. Henry only gets as far as popping off the top two buttons before giving up and lifting it over his torso.

Alex stares at him hungrily.

So Henry does this:

He kisses a trail up Alex's chest, agonizingly slow around his nipples, giving deliberate licks along the reddened nubs while looking at Alex just to see the way his face contorts in _not enough_. Henry runs his hands down Alex's side and presses down hard on his hips, and contrasts it by continuing a leisurely pace with his mouth, sucking at Alex's right nipple with just enough hollowing of his cheeks so Alex can feel it, but not nearly enough to satisfy him. He hears Alex groan, drawn out and frustrated, and Henry grins against his solar plexus, sure it looks positively shit-eating when he seeks out Alex's eyes and finds them blown wide and murderous.

"Fuck you," Alex says earnestly, and without missing a beat, Henry tells him, "Later."

Alex's responding snort is so unsexy that Henry can't help but as he leans down to kiss him, a happy, laughing one that should throw off the mood of what they're doing, but just makes it all sweeter, dripping like honey in Henry's stomach. Because it's them, the kiss gets heated anyway, Alex's hips rising to grind against Henry's and both of them moaning into each other's mouths, Henry almost giving up and rutting back into Alex until they both come in their pants like in the height of the days of their clandestine hookups, but he remembers himself at the last moment. He presses Alex's hips down into the mattress again, and as agonizing it is to be bereft of the hard length of Alex grinding against his, Alex's resulting groan exhilarates him.

"I said I'll be taking my time tonight," Henry says, "and I mean it."

Something about the tone must have done something to Alex because his cock gives a little twitch, and oh, Henry is going to _love_ taking him apart.

"Don't move your hips," Henry tells him, not quite an order—this isn't really a scene, they haven't talked enough to make it an actual thing—though they've certainly ventured into it, what with Alex being tied up right now and Henry being in Alex's place just last week—but Alex will know better than to not obey.

Henry takes his hands off Alex's hips just to rake his fingers down the curves of Alex's body, his fragile wrists, turned up to the ceiling and bound together with Henry's belt, his arms, the strain of his shoulders that he forces to relax with a few peppers of sweet kisses, his ribs, the dip of his waist. He retraces the trail with his mouth, leaving Alex's skin shiny and wet with his tongue, inching lower and lower, down his abs to the soft hairs below his belly button, curving right away from where Alex's cock is rock-hard against his leg, to the tender skin on the inside of his thighs.

Alex bites his lip, looking both equal parts hopeful and _this_ close to putting his fist through Henry's face. "Henry..."

"Yes, love?" Henry hums innocently, crawling up to face Alex, his knees bracketing Alex's sides.

"You're giving me fucking blue balls."

Henry laughs.

"It's not funny, you evil idiot," Alex spits out. "I'm fucking dying over here."

"Why, Alex," Henry says, raising one eyebrow. "I thought you were the one who said that you want me to, and I quote, 'tease me for hours until my words are reduced to only begging for your dick in my ass'?"

"Past Alex was wrong," Alex says. "Past Alex didn't know that being teased like this is fucking torture."

Henry nuzzles his nose against the column of Alex's throat, feels his breath hitch at the barest hint of teeth as Henry gives the sensitive patch of skin a lazy nip. "I should've recorded that," he muses. "I don't think you've ever admitted you were wrong so fast before."

"You dick—"

"Besides," Henry cuts him, wickedly, purposefully, rising to his knees. "I fully intend on making myself feel good with your body first before I even think about touching you."

Alex gasps, and Henry freezes, afraid he'd crossed a line and about to backtrack, but then, without preamble, Alex, the beautiful, unbelievable demon that he is, opens his beautiful, unbelievable mouth, and it should make such an obscene scene, Alex spread out on the sheets like this, hands tied up, opening his mouth to invite Henry in, but instead what fills his chest is incredible warmth, seeping into his toes.

Fuck. Henry fucking loves him.

Henry's already planning to fuck Alex's mouth like this, with his wrists tied up so only his mouth can work, because he knows that it's the fastest way to get Alex to the place that Alex needs on difficult, controlling days, but to have the confirmation that Alex loves it as much as he does...

Henry can't put his cock fast enough in Alex's mouth, but he tries to go slow, sliding his cock around Alex's red lips, marveling in the intoxicating heat of Alex's mouth. Alex makes a sound deep in his throat, closing his eyes, and that sight—Alex loving this, wanting Henry is inside his mouth like this, when he's especially helpless to do anything but take as good as Henry gives, it sends a heady rush to Henry's head that his hips move almost without Henry realizing it. He should've made Alex wait, he thinks, should've had Alex breathe while he just keeps his cock in his mouth, see how long Alex can stand it. Next time. Next time, he'll grab Alex by the head and see how long Alex can stay still with Henry just doing nothing.

For now, he starts slow. Alex's blowjobs are spectacular, but Henry knows not to push him right from the beginning. He doesn't want Alex to struggle, wants this to be just as good to Alex as it is to him. So he starts slow, inch by inch of his cock sliding in and out of his mouth, until he can see Alex moving his head to the rhythm.

He says, "So good, baby," and the last pet name just slips out, usually an Alex thing, but God, the way Alex responds to it. The way his _body_ responds to it. He moans, muffled, his cheeks hollowing, following his every thrust. Henry does it again, because he knows what it does to him when Alex calls him baby, but now that he knows that Alex likes it too, Henry can't get enough, and his quickens his pace, fighting to not do it too rough, but then Alex makes a truly dangerous sound when the head of his cock grazes the back of his neck, and then Henry does everything to hear Alex make that sound again.

And it's—fuck, it's stupid good to see the progression of Alex's blowjob skills like this, to remember that Alex put his mouth nervously on him the first and asked, "Not bad?" To reconcile that Alex with this Alex, the one whose mouth is stretched over him, letting Henry fuck his throat like this, hard enough that Henry can see the bulge under the shadow of his jaw where his cock is in deep, it almost undoes Henry. And they can't have that. Henry's got plans.

He slips out, and Alex whines. "Henry, what the fuck," he protests, his voice rough and fucked out. Henry just has to kiss mouth for it.

"If we keep at it," Henry explains, "I'll come. And that'll ruin my plans."

"Any plan that involves you pulling out when you're close to coming in my mouth is a stupid plan," Alex informs him.

Henry smirks, reaches a hand down to lightly, very lightly brush his fingers over the slit of Alex's cock. The reaction is immediate and just what Henry hopes for: after being neglected, Alex's spine jerks, his shiny mouth curled around a beautiful choked out moan. "How about you coming in my mouth?"

Alex swears. "Henry, you fucking demon."

"It won't be until later, though," Henry says, still thumbing the slit lightly, almost mindlessly.

"Henry—" Alex's hands are balled up into fists above his head, clenching and unclenching.

As casually as one might comment on the weather, Henry says, "Right now, I want to fuck you."

And Alex looks at him, his eyes showing a devastation that Henry's never seen before, and Henry sees that Alex knows what it means, what in entails, and he says, "Please."

Henry swallows, reaching over to the nightstand for the lube. Though they’ve done this a couple of times before, it always feels as overwhelming as the first time, as beautiful and all-consuming, having Alex submit himself to Henry like this. It should be as simple as give and take, but it always makes his heart feel twice as big to be in charge of Alex’s pleasure like this, knowing that he’s the one responsible for the way little tremors flutter through Alex’s body.

He settles himself between Alex’s legs, leaning down so his shoulders cover Alex’s in the way that he knows would drive him mad. When his lubed-up fingers find the opening between his cheeks, Alex sighs, his legs falling open wider, as if he can't wait to accommodate more, deeper. Henry distantly thinks of watching flowers bloom in fast-forward, revealed to him, a sight he can't take his eyes away from no matter how many times he's seen it, like sunset.

Alex is always impatient whenever Henry fingers him, always wants more, canting his hips up like he wants to prove a point, but sometimes, Henry thinks that Alex does it just so he can have the pleasure of Henry denying him, going slow when he tells Henry to pick up the pace, faster when Alex moans like he can't take more. Henry could do this for hours, and that's what he sets out to do , biting kisses on the inside of Alex's thighs, two fingers coaxing him open, then three, corkscrewing it in and out of him.

Henry knows it must be agonizing, from the way Alex's head is thrown back, he knows Alex's this close to exploding, his fingers not nearly enough, especially with Henry strategically ignoring his leaking cock, and he wonders what it says about himself that it makes the fire inside him burn even hotter.

"Henry," Alex says, "I need—I need—"

"What do you need, baby?" Henry asks him. Alex's answering whine is high, and Henry pulls his fingers out just to hear it again. The reaction is immediate, Alex letting out a pained sob, clenching around a tragic nothing. Alex's head snaps up, and Henry thinks he's about to be chewed out, but instead what he sees is a desperate want.

"That wasn’t enough, was it?" Henry crawls up his torso, Alex following his eyes. “You need more, sweetheart?”

"Please," Alex says, soft, when they're finally eye-to-eye, "fuck me."

Henry swallows, cups Alex's cheeks in his hands, uncaring of the smear of wetness across his temples, and kisses him hard. With that, he reaches over to loosen the belt tying Alex's wrists, mouthing at the faint redness that tinges the skin there from Alex pulling at it, reminds himself to get the massaging oil and make it all better, once this is done. Alex makes a questioning noise.

"I want you on your hands and knees," Henry tells him, and doesn't even think to joke about how fast Alex scrambles to turn around—all he can think of is how much Alex wants this. Wants _Henry_.

He bends himself at the hips, crowding Alex’s back, his lips pressed against the soft skin at Alex’s nape. Alex turns his head to the side and captures his lips in a long, drawn-out kiss—and the angle should be uncomfortable, Alex’s head craned up like this, holding himself on his elbows and knees, but Henry drinks him in, commits Alex to a room in his memories that are served for the best moments of his life.

Hands clasped at Alex’s hips, Henry pushes himself in, centimeter by centimeter. The feeling of Alex around him never fails to make him shudder, the warmth and tightness of it all encompassing. Alex’s breath rushes out of his mouth, hot on Henry’s lips, and he kisses him again, eating up his gasps and moans, their skin sliding against each other as Henry begins to shallowly thrust into Alex.

He skates one arm up Alex’s side, fingernails catching on the nubs of his nipples—he takes notes on the way Alex’s breath hitches deliciously at that—to wrap around his ribs, his spine curved up into Alex’s. Alex is wrecked—there’s a sheen of sweat on his brow, a testament to the hours that are now behind them, the curls at the front patted down, messy from when Henry twists them between his fingers. Henry can only imagine the picture they make, wrapped around each other on the bed, aching in tandem.

It’s easy to lose himself in this, fucking into Alex senseless, chasing a white-hot relief that sears through his body, listening to the litany of noises coming out of Alex’s mouth that it takes a while for Henry to realize that Alex is calling out his name. He slows, scared frozen that he’s hurt Alex, but all Alex offers him is a reverent plea.

“Touch me,” Alex is saying. “Please, I’m so close—”

Dizzily, Henry thinks about stopping—pulling out entirely, maybe—and thinks about how Alex would react. He’d thrash underneath him, curse his name then beg again, sweeter this time, until Henry gives him what he wants. But Henry can feel his own climax approaching too, and in the end, that wins out.

“You can come, baby,” Henry says, but his hands stay where he is, one on his hips and the other around his chest.

Alex whines. “I can’t—please—”

“You can,” Henry says, surprises himself with how rough and commanding that comes out of his mouth, and surprises Alex too, if the way he groans at it is any indication. Alex starts moving too, and when Henry realizes it’s to grind himself against the bedsheets, something possesses him to wrench his hips up, away from the mindless friction Alex’s trying to make for himself, and says into his ear, “No, you can come, but only from this.” He snaps his hips against Alex’s ass. “Only from _me_.”

“Ah, _fuck_ ,” Alex says in a voice that sounds like it’s been punched out of him. His elbows falter, upper body slipping onto the bed but Henry catches him, his fingers splayed just lightly over Alex’s neck, and, _oh._ Alex’s breathless, his whole body singing with it, and carefully, Henry fits his hand over Alex’s pulse point, a jumping rhythm that Henry can’t map out. Alex sucks in a helpless breath, and the darkness behind Henry’s eyelids white-out, coming with a hard pulse inside Alex. He knows Alex can feel it, wonders if that’s what pushes Alex over the edge too, when he reaches down and finds it wet and sticky-slow.

In the afterglow, they lay next to each other, waiting for their heartbeats to slow into a steady rhythm. Henry feels like the world moves in slow-motion, even his blinks delayed, dripping like honey. It’s when Alex inches to him that Henry becomes aware again of his surroundings, a sharp focus where the tip of Alex’s chin rests against his neck.

“Where is this coming from, babe?” Alex asks, breathless. “Not that I don’t enjoy it—because _goddamn_ —but this feels a little… personal?”

Henry doesn’t answer, just gently rolls Alex onto his side so he can cuddle him to his chest, his hair tickling his nose and mouth. Alex hums contentedly, burying his nose into Henry’s chest, one of his arms under Henry’s neck, the other snaked around waist. Alex is going to complain about not being able to feel his arm in the morning, but Henry’s far too comfortable to move now. Alex is so warm, and his eyelids are beginning to drop.

“Wait,” Alex says. He pulls away from Henry’s embrace, and Henry groans, missing the warmth immediately. He cracks open one eye, and finds Alex staring back at him with a shit-eating grin on his face. “Henry. Are you—are you _jealous_?”

Henry feels his cheeks getting redder, and he slaps the back of his hand on his forehead, leaning away from Alex’s knowing eyes. Alex laughs, rather hysterically, and straddles him so he can pry Henry’s hand away from his face, and despite the earthshattering orgasm he’s had just mere minutes ago, the act has his cock twitching in response.

“ _Baby_ ,” Alex grins. “Are you jealous?”

Henry can dodge all he wants, but there’s no way that Alex will let it go. He’ll be insufferable about it, and then Henry won’t get to sleep.

“… maybe?” he allows.

Alex stares at him. “Of… who?”

Henry groans. “You were standing awfully close, and June always says he’s your biggest crush—”

“Oh my _God,_ were you jealous of _Hasan Minhaj?_ ” Alex wheezes. “Henry, he’s _married_.”

“I know that, of course I know _that_ —”

Alex flops down on top him, his body shaking with laughter, and Henry makes a halfhearted attempt to push him off. Alex doesn’t budge, moves up his body to cup his face in his warm hands and says, “Is this where the sudden possessive streak comes from?”

Henry buries his face in the pillow and wishes the ground would swallow him whole.

“Hey,” Alex says softly. “We have to talk to about things, remember?”

“Sorry,” Henry says finally. “I don’t know. It’s just—you put your arms around his waist and it’s—what you usually do to me, when we’re in public, so I got—jealous. It’s irrational, I know.”

“No, Henry, it’s not—it’s something that bothers you and makes you upset, we’re going to talk about it, okay? I swear it’s like, not a thing or something. I just wanted to talk about me guest starring in a future episode, really.”

Henry eyes him skeptically. “What future episode?”

“The one about immigration reform!” Alex says laughingly. “Look, I just want him to get his facts straight that in his years of presidency, Obama deported more immigrants than any other sitting presidents. It’s a season premiere episode, which will do good things to my ratings, and I’ll be the first queer person to appear in the episode, not _just_ the deep cuts.”

Henry sighs, relenting. He holds his arms out for Alex, the latter cuddling readily up to his chest, content—and just a little too smug for Henry’s liking, but he’ll allow it. “I know,” Henry says. “I’m sorry.”

“You said that already,” Alex says, flicking at his nose. “But if this is how you act every time you get jealous, though,” he continues, stops when Henry shoots him a warning glare, and Alex laughs and kisses his eyebrows and nose and says, “Kidding, _kidding,_ just kidding.”

Henry grabs the oil from the nightstand afterwards, rubs soothing hands into the soreness of Alex’s wrists gently, lulling him to sleep. Though they fall asleep curled around each other, they don’t wake up quite in the same position, but endearingly, Henry finds that their elbows are still tangled around each other’s, as if in the night, they’ve drifted away, but didn’t want to quite stop touching. Henry is suddenly reminded of a picture of a couple of otters that Nora sent him the other day, how they sleep holding hands to avoid floating away, and imagines that he and Alex are the same way—keeping each other safe with a touch, even in sleep.

It makes Henry’s heart ache in the best way.

*

(Funnily enough, he beats Alex to it when he appeared for an interview in a surprise special episode, two weeks before Alex’s appearance was due. Alex texts him a bunch of knife emojis the day the episode aired, which Henry didn’t get to reply as he was on a plane to London for a meeting about solar energy, but when he landed around five in the morning, he sees that Alex’s made their hashtag— _firstprince_ —trending again with a tweet.

Henry shakes his head, sends off a quick response that he’s sure is bound to go viral in an hour, and puts his phone back in his pocket, only half listening to Shaan reading off his itinerary for the day. _God_ , he thinks as he steps off into the London mist, he already misses Alex so much, and starts the countdown until he gets to put his body next to Alex’s again.)


End file.
